The Headland: Part 11 - Rebellious Raven

‘Well I told her straight, no bushes were beaten around. I told her I hadn’t seen my own natural hair colour since Harold McMillan was Prime Minister, so if she was going to complain about Miss Wright, she’d better condemn me too. I think that drove the point home rather nicely.’ Gillian Howard placed her cup of milky coffee onto its saucer (she would rather die the agonising death of dehydration than be seen using a mug) and patted her stickily lacquered blue-black bun. Although the two teachers were alone in the staffroom, she dropped her voice to a clandestine murmur, ‘You probably will not have realised this, Alice, but this is not my natural hue. Rebellious Raven, it’s called. French.’ She exaggerated the last word with an imperious roll of the letter R and a supercilious nod. She reached for the biscuit tin. ‘Dear Lord, where has all the shortbread gone? Rich Tea is an insult to our status and professionalism. I shall have words. Stern words.’ 

‘I’m so glad you stuck up for Esther, Gillian. Thank you. How is she getting on with your readers?’ Alice had endured many petty battles with Gillian Howard over the years, yet she had never truly doubted the woman’s good heart. Underneath her pompous and prickly exterior, she was cushion soft.

‘Wonderful. She spends twenty minutes every afternoon with each of the children I chose and listens to them read. She asks excellent questions. Praises them to the hilt. Believe me, Alice, not one of those children had any interest in books before. They all look forward to her visits. I did get a shock when her blonde streak turned florid pink though. Not that I admitted that to Frances Wood’s mother.’

‘It’s the same with the children in my class. No one in Lesley Benson’s house will listen to her read. It’s lovely to see her happily reading every day with Esther. Imagine being so petty that you’d want to stop that because of a streak of pink hair.’ Alice packed away her lunch box and leant in conspiratorially to Gillian, ‘By the way, that pink streak, it’s Frivolous Flamingo. Cuban. Maybe you could try it, if you ever tire of Rebellious Raven.’

As the afternoon limped on, Alice felt her eyes being pulled to the clock on the wall. It was the Friday before Spring half term. She was tired and her classroom was in a state of chaos. The children were all industriously painting portraits of their favourite Tudor monarch, allegedly in the style of Hans Holbein. Paint and spilled water pooled on every surface. When she’d popped next door to Gillian Howard’s class to borrow some brushes, she’d noticed that class was sitting in silence, colouring in with pencils. ‘Alice, you are insane doing painting on the last day. E.C.I. was invented for such occasions.’

‘E.C.I., Miss Howard?’

‘Educational Colouring In. Peace! Order! Tranquillity!’

 When she returned to her classroom and looked at the disarray, Alice groaned. Gillian Howard would be out the door at half past three, whereas she would still be tidying up at five o’clock. Her desk had vanished completely under teetering piles of unmarked exercise books. A gruesome papier-mache head with a long black wig and a ragged, blood stained neck leered at her from the top of the tallest stack, a prop from their re-enactment of the execution of Anne Boleyn that morning. 

Alice clapped her hands together three times, ‘Stand still, brushes down everyone. Hush! Lesley, you’re in charge of collecting and washing brushes. Peter, you get the paint bottles, make sure lids are on and they are back under the sink. Georgina, can you be in charge of collecting and washing mixing palates please? Lucy, you get all the newspaper in the bin. Charles, put the pictures on the drying rack. Anyone who finds my blackboard rubber can have a gold star. I’ve not seen it since last Wednesday. Now go and wash your hands and then come and sit on the carpet. Off you go in one, two three! Freddie please leave Anne Boleyn alone. She’s had a stressful enough day without you licking her.’ 

As the children bustled in different directions doing their various jobs, the classroom door opened and Esther came in. She was precariously balancing a cardboard box in her arms. As soon as the children saw her, all pretence of purposeful activity was forgotten. ‘Miss Wright!’ they cried, fussing and clucking about her like chickens round a farmer’s wife. 

‘Hello, Miss Wright. I wasn’t expecting to see you this afternoon. I thought you had an appointment,’ Alice said, wondering if her classroom would ever get tidied. There were only twenty minutes left till home time. 

‘Well, I have something for you, Miss Finch. It’s a special gift and I thought the girls and boys would like to see it. You can open it when everyone is sitting down.’

After several crazed minutes, the children finally sat on the floor and their flapping, fluttering excitement crystallised into a tremulous silence. A silence that was soon broken by a tiny mewing coming from the cardboard box. 

‘It’s a cat!’ squealed Lesley Benson. 

‘Or possibly a very small anaconda,’ said Freddie March knowledgeably. Freddie March was obsessed with anacondas and delighted in terrifying the rest of the class with tales of their size and savagery.

‘I’m sure it’s not an anaconda, Freddie,’ Alice said, noticing that several children had begun to shuffle nervously on their bottoms. ‘Anacondas don’t meow.’

‘Why don’t you open the box, Miss Finch. Be quiet everyone. We don’t want our little visitor to be frightened.’ Esther said, putting her finger to her lips.

The children sat enthralled as Alice opened the box and looked inside. A mewling black kitten with startling, sunflower yellow eyes was curled on an old scarf in the bottom of the box. ‘Now you have your own familiar. Just like Lolly Willowes.’ Esther said, beaming. Alice lifted the kitten out of the box to a chorus of ear-piercing squeals. 

‘That’s pathetic. It’s tiny. It would just be like a salted peanut to an anaconda. Half a salted peanut. Quarter. . .’ 

 ‘That’s enough about anacondas, Freddie, for heaven’s sake.’ Alice said firmly. The boy rolled his eyes and folded his arms in disgust.

‘What’s a familiar, Miss Finch?’ Lesley Benson asked.

‘Witches have familiars,’ Georgina chirruped brightly, ‘They are creatures that help with spells and potions and . . . stuff.’ The class, with the exception of Freddie March, cooed approvingly, delighted to learn that not only was the kitten adorable, it was also magical. ‘Freddie, that tiny kitten, if he is a familiar could turn an anaconda into an earthworm with one twitch of a whisker.’ Georgina proclaimed with such authority the whole class cheered as Freddie silently seethed.

As Alice was holding up the kitten so the children could see when the classroom door opened again and Mr Gibson burst into the room. 

‘Good afternoon, boys and girls,’ he cried with his typical ebulliency. Behind him lurked a sour-faced woman in a stiff, emerald-green suit. The combination of the vivid green and the woman’s pursed, disapproving expression put Alice in mind of a lizard. A particularly mean-spirited lizard.

‘Now, this is Miss Finch’s class. Miss Finch, as I told you, is one of our most experienced teachers. We love her, don’t we boys and girls?’ Ordinarily, the children adored visits from Mr Gibson, and they habitually treated any unknown visitor to the school with the awe and reverence due a member of the royal family or an alien from a passing spaceship. On that day, however, both Mr Gibson and the Lizard Lady were impotent when it came to competing for attention with an eight-week old kitten, especially a magical, anaconda-defeating kitten. Alice saw the woman shoot a cursory glance around the classroom, coolly taking in the split paint and water, piles of drying pictures and messy stacks of exercise books. Her shrewd Gestapo gaze snagged on the grisly severed head of Anne Boleyn goggling at her from the teacher’s desk. Freddie March was making his way over to the head, no doubt with plans to start licking her again. ‘Well, it’s certainly all going on in here, Miss Finch,’ the woman said with a disapproving simper.

‘Look Mr Gibson, Miss Finch has a new kitten!’ Georgina Slater called.

‘Yes, it’s her familiar. To help with spells. And potions. And STUFF.’ Lesley Benson interjected, rather unhelpfully, Alice thought.

‘An anaconda can eat a goat in one gulp. Anacondas would have to eat about five thousand kittens every day to stay alive. Possibly even five thousand and four.’ Freddie Marsh added, taking a break from licking Anne Boleyn’s rather startled eyebrows.

 Alice handed the soft curl of black fur to Lesley. ‘Be very gentle, Lesley,’ she whispered. The girl nodded gravely. Since the Nativity, Lesley Benson had approached all classroom duties with a calm and gentle authority. She had, after all, been chosen by God to be the mother of His only son. It was only right and proper therefore that she should be entrusted with the care of Miss Finch’s new enchanted kitten. 

Alice stepped forward and held out her hand to the Lizard Lady. The woman’s hand was dry and cold, but reassuringly scaleless. Her handshake had the brisk efficiency of a politician on a campaign trail.

‘Miss Finch. Nice to meet you. And who is this young lady,’ the woman asked, nodding towards Esther, who Alice suddenly noticed had changed the colour of her streak to from pink to cobalt blue. 

‘This is Miss Esther Wright. A wonderfully kind ex-pupil who comes in to listen to our readers. That is what I was saying, Margaret. This school is a family,’ Mr Gibson thankfully answered for Alice, who felt at that moment as if all her words had escaped her, like rats from a sinking ship.

‘Mr Gibson, I de-beheaded Georgina Slater this m m m morning. I used a silver sword. I was f f f French.’ Ben Davison stammered. 

‘Well done young man,’ Mr Gibson replied proudly. ‘That’s the ticket!’

Lizard Woman opened her mouth to ask a question, when the classroom erupted in a cacophony of screams. 

‘Miss Finch! Miss Finch! The kitten has just peed on Lesley,’ Georgina Slater squealed with barely contained delight. She had never truly forgiven Lesley for taking her rightful place as Mary in the Nativity. Moments like this were to be savoured like the cherry on the top of a sticky bun. 

‘Well, wonderful, Miss Finch. Wonderful. Well done everyone. I’ll let you get ready for home-time, boys and girls. Now, Margaret, shall we go and visit Miss Howard’s class. She teaches the oldest junior children.’ Mr Gibson, led the Lizard Lady out of the classroom. The door swung closed behind them with the finality of a full stop.

 After the children had left for the day, Alice and Esther sat on the floor cushions by the bookcase. The kitten stumbled clumsily between them.

‘Who was that awful woman with Mr Gibson?’ Esther asked. 

‘I have a terrible feeling, that was our new Headteacher. I did tell you this is Mr Gibson’s last year. If it was, heaven help us. What a time to come in. Look at the state of the classroom. Incontinent kittens. Anacondas. Beheadings. What must she think of me?’

‘That you’re a witch, thanks to Lesley Benson.’ 

Alice put her hands over her face and laughed. She picked up the plump kitten and kissed his tiny black nose. ‘We were sitting here on these cushions when you told me about Bakewell and his adventures, do you remember?’

 ‘Yes, it was summer, wasn’t it? The windows were open. The grass had been cut. Oh, Miss Finch, I’m sorry I brought the kitten in. It was dreadful timing. I just thought the children would like to see him.’ 

‘Don’t worry. I am glad you did. It was lovely for the children to see him. You weren’t to know about Lizard Lady’s visit. I didn’t know myself. I love Mr Gibson, but he just doesn’t think sometimes. He should have given us some warning. I would have arranged some E.C.I. myself and not have planned a day that involved capital punishment and painting.’

‘E.C.I?’

‘Educational Colouring In. Miss Howard’s term. Thank you for the kitten. I love him. He’s perfect. Even his whiskers are jet black. He does look as if he is going to be magical. I bet, when he’s grown, he’ll spend his days in the churchyard, lounging on the tombs in the sun. Thank you so much, Esther. It was thoughtful and kind. I’m delighted.’

Esther stood up, ‘It’s to say thank you. I got my application in to Newcastle University, you know. I’ve not heard back yet, of course. But I like the sound of the course. I’m going to put this little chap in his box and then help you tidy up. I’ll walk back with you, if you like, you’ll struggle with your bag and the kitten. What will you call him?’ 

Before Alice could answer, Gillian Howard swept into the room on a tsunami of simmering rage. 

‘Block your ears, Esther Wright. I am about to use some uncustomarily barnyard language.’ Esther closed the cardboard box and busied herself at the sink. Gillian Howard continued, ‘Alice, I just have to say, if that harridan is our new head, then I’ll be putting in for early retirement along with Mr Gibson. She sallied into my classroom like the pope in a M&S suit. She looked askance at my E.C.I. lesson and had the nerve to ask me what the children were leaning. I told her they were learning that by the end of a half term, when their teacher is down to one single, solitary shredded nerve, that silence is the best policy. Honestly, I’ve not taught thirty years to be patronised by a woman who can’t even keep on top of her roots.’ She walked up to the cardboard box that Esther had placed on a desk by the door. She peered through a hole cut in the top of a box. A tiny paw shot out accompanied by a furious hiss. Gillian Howard stood back abruptly. ‘I am not even going to ask, Alice. Anything is possible in this classroom and why in the name of all that is holy have you got a severed head on your desk? Heavens above. No, don’t answer. I can only take so much in one day. Ladies, I shall leave you with this thought, And I looked and I saw a pale horse. And on that horse sat a woman in a jungle green suit and her name was Death. This is the end of days. The end of days, I tell you!’ And with that, she nodded briskly, spun on her brogues and left. 

Alice and Esther looked at each other and laughed. ‘You know, Miss Howard is growing on me. I love that she thinks harridan is barnyard language!’ said Esther as she dried the stack of paint palettes. 

Alice started crumpling newspaper into the bin and wiping spills from desks. ‘I’ll really miss her if she goes. A colleague who quotes Revelations to you is rare indeed. My goodness, I can’t picture this school without Mr Gibson and Miss Howard. Maybe it really is the end of days. But, she has given me an idea for the kitten’s name. I am going to call him Raven. Rebellious Raven, in honour of Miss Howard.’